


lost on you

by youatemytailor



Category: Black Sails
Genre: I cry a lot, M/M, SFBB2018, john silver denies he has ever felt a single thing in his entire life, john silver lies a lot, mid s2 during the fort standoff storyline, sick!flint fic because i'm a sucker, wow they loved each other!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 01:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15062081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youatemytailor/pseuds/youatemytailor
Summary: Silver is in the room when it happens. He’s not sure if he’s glad for it, in retrospect.





	lost on you

**Author's Note:**

> i'm out here writing s2 fic a year and a half after the show ended, whooooooop. anyway these fools made me feel things again, i hope you all enjoy my slow death! 
> 
> please also check out the [amazing fanart](http://clenster.tumblr.com/post/175279470616/illustrations-for-lost-on-you-the-silverflint) for this fic done by the wonderful [@clenster](http://clenster.tumblr.com) on tumblr!! thank you clennie <3

Silver is in the room when it happens. He’s not sure if he’s glad for it, in retrospect.  

* * *

Flint is far too quiet as he listens to Silver talk about the state of the beach. It’s a little unusual, sure, but Flint is also seriously considering razing his home to the ground, so. He’s allowed to brood on the matter a little as far as Silver is concerned. Hell, some hesitation in the face of such carnage is probably a good thing.

Well. Not a  _good_  thing. Not for pirates. But at least Flint is brooding in private. 

Half-way through Silver’s quick rundown of where loyalties lie for the coming fight – the number of bodies available to bleed and die – Flint gets a strange look on his face. It’s distant, turned inward. Silver catches it and presses on – Flint makes that face all the time lately – until Flint shakes his head and moves to rise out of his seat, going for the bottle of rum just out of his reach. 

As soon as Flint gets up he sways. Both of his hands come down hard on the desk. The rest happens far too quickly for Silver to do anything but watch; Flint’s eyes roll far back into his head and he collapses, dragging the tools and maps and everything else spread out on the table down with him as he goes.

Flint’s neck—when Silver is able to put his shaking hands on it—feels like an open fucking flame. 

* * *

The doctor is in the cabin when Silver enters. He’s by the nook in the window, squinting at the pocket watch in his outstretched hand and gripping a pale wrist in the other. The room is oddly stark, Silver thinks, oddly bright. The Captain’s desk has been pushed to the side. The vanguard’s hammocks have been cleared for space. There’s a tub sitting in the middle, recently used and half-empty. Familiar items are strewn across the floor; a studded gun belt, a dark shirt. Flint’s jacket hangs off the back of the chair.

Silver clears his throat, loud. "How is he?" 

“The same,” Howell says, in that awful voice Silver has grown to hate. He lowers Flint's arm back to the bed. “I’ve given him something to break the fever. With any luck we should begin to see improvement in a few hours."

"That's—” Silver swallows, “Good news.”

It isn’t. Luck isn’t good news; it’s hardly even news. He leans into the door-frame and crosses his arms, throws one ankle over the other.

“Hornigold can smell blood in the water,” he says, as Howell presses his palm to Flint’s forehead and scribbles something onto a piece of paper. “He’s already talking about calling for a vote.”

“Hmm,” Howell says. He makes another note. 

“The men can feel it, too,” Silver goes on. “They're growing restless. In a day or two they’ll be right where Hornigold wants them. The Captain needs to be up and about before that happens.”

“Hmm,” Howell repeats, and for a single, ludicrous moment, Silver wants to  _throttle_  him.

He makes himself smile instead. Easy as pulling teeth. “You seem awfully unconcerned about this.”

“Would you like me to panic?” Howell asks. “I’ve done everything I can, Mr. Silver. Now we just have to wait.”

“All due respect, Doctor, but my point is that we don’t have _time_ to wait.”

Howell casts a look over his shoulder at that; a slow, accusing thing, as though Silver has somehow incriminated himself. The urge to strangle the doctor returns full force.

“Do I have something on my face?” Silver asks, “What?" 

"You seem tense."

"Of _course_ I'm fucking tense!"

The way Howell’s eyebrows rise, then—even  _that_  is painfully slow. Silver’s patience snaps clean in half; he shoves off the door and enters the room. “I don’t know if you’ve considered this, but every moment the Captain is unconscious in that bed is another step away from five million dollars.” 

“Yes, I’m well aware of that—”

“Wonderful! I’m sure you are also aware, then, Doctor, that we’re currently locked in a ridiculous show of force with a madman who is very keen on blowing us all sky high unless we concede to his demands; we have a crew full of men itching for a fight that he—Flint—the  _Captain_ —promised them; a fight that we presently cannot even hope to deliver; and—” Silver pauses. “Actually, there is no  _and_. I’d say that’s about enough shit to make us all a little tense, wouldn’t you agree?” 

There’s a pause. Howell blinks.

“Hmm,” he says. "Have you slept at all?" 

“Have I— _did you hear a word of what I just said_?” 

“Irritability is a common side effect of sleep deprivation.” 

“I’m not—” Silver inhales a sneer, “I am _not_ irritable, I’m just—” 

With a loud slap Howell drops his notes onto the bedside table. Then he’s suddenly stalking forward to stand in Silver’s space, his gaze far too close and curious for comfort.

“You look terrible,” he announces, as though that’s some kind of fucking revelation.

The smile won’t come as beckoned this time. “Thank you,” Silver says, aware that he’s now failing to keep his tone civil, “I appreciate the concern, truly. But I’m—” It’s some kind of a death-wish, surely, that brings Howell a step closer; Silver leans back an inch, “Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, Doctor, but I feel compelled to point out that I am not the patient here—” 

Howell holds up a hand. He seems exasperated. “Mr. Silver, despite what you seem to think, I do not enjoy harassing you. Truthfully under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t care in the slightest what you do at night. But we cannot afford for this fever to spread across the crew, do you understand? I do not have enough medicine on hand for that. And if you do not rest—”  

“I told you, I have been sleeping just fine—” 

"You’re on edge, you’re disoriented, you’re pale as death—"

"Enough!” Silver snaps, “What difference does it make! Would you please just focus your attention on the unconscious man in the room?"  

There’s a moment of ringing silence, worse than the first. The bookshelf to the left offers Silver some respite from Howell’s attention so he stalks towards it, dips his head to read the spines. Most of the titles are in Spanish, a few in Portuguese. Silver peruses. Suddenly nothing in the world is more interesting.

"Hmm," Howell says. Then with a blessed air of finality he turns on his heel, heading towards Flint’s bedside. "The Captain's condition is stable, as I said. I understand that the stakes are high. I understand that the men are waiting for news. I understand that you are— _concerned_. However, there is very little I can do. I’ve treated him as best as I can. The rest is up to—”

“God?” Silver gives a derisive snort. “That’s comforting.”

“No," Howell says, and Silver looks over at him in surprise. Flecks of dust catapult into the air as Howell unfurls a worn blanket and drapes it over Flint's chest. "Even God can only do so much, I’m afraid. It's up to the Captain whether or not he comes back from this. He's already let it get this far."

Dread sinks like tar into Silver’s stomach. "What's that supposed to mean?” 

“This fever isn’t new, Mr. Silver. The fact that it knocked him out—it would need time to progress to such a stage. I can only assume that the Captain has been walking around with it for days.”

_Days_ , Silver thinks, numbly. Of course. He feels like an idiot. He  _is_  an idiot. He'd been looking for the source of Flint's recent amiability in the wrong fucking places. Everything that has happened in the last week starts to make a horrifying amount of sense, up to and including yesterday, when Flint had actually asked for his fucking opinion on something. 

“Was it the gunshot?” Silver asks, taking a halting step forward. He should have patched Flint’s shoulder up better. “An infection?”  

“Maybe,” Howell turns to the washbasin, wets and wrings a rag dry. “Maybe not. Honestly, I don’t know. 

“Is there  _anything_ that you—” Silver stops short. “Sorry. I am—well. The Doctor says I’m sleep deprived.”  

The joke doesn’t land. “Hmm,” Howell says. He places the compress over Flint’s creased forehead. “I suppose you’re right, I don’t know much. One thing is clear, however. The stories we hear on Nassau are not to be believed. Even the good ones.” 

“The good ones?" 

“Oh, you know,” Howell says, waving a hand. “Captain Flint. They say he’s unkillable. Immortal. Anointed by a witch or some such superstitious drivel. But he is only a man, like the rest of us. He forgets that sometimes, I think. Men like him tend to forget.”  

A vivid memory; Flint wading into the sea with one good arm and a target on his back. Flint strapped to a chair, lifting his chin to stare down the barrel of a gun. Flint sinking into the water. Heavy as though he were already dead. _I don't think he forgets_ , Silver thinks,  _I just don’t think he cares._  

He doesn't say it. He doesn't know why he doesn't say it.

"Where’s a witch when you need her, eh?” 

That one lands; earns a chuckle, too, though a small one. Howell hefts the washbasin into his arms. “Perhaps she’s waiting for him at home,” he muses, carrying it across the cabin to the open window in the far corner.

The path to the bed is cleared and for the first time since Silver walked through the door, he lets himself look at Flint properly. 

When Silver was a child—nine years old, ten at most—there’d been a dog on his street. A massive beast of a thing, snapping at anyone who dared came close. He terrorized the neighborhood for months. Caught birds out of the air, chased grown men up trees, stole cuts of meat from the butcher around the corner. The older kids warned everyone in the home not to go near him.

_It's diseased_ , they’d said,  _Starved right mad. He’ll take yer little ‘ead clean off with his teef, Sol—_

A few days later Silver saw a flock of crows descend on the dog in an alley. Watched as they tore him to shreds before he could run, before he could fight. For all that he was, all that he had ever been, the beast was only a pup in death. It hadn't seemed fair at the time, even to a little boy who had learned young that nothing ever really was. A thing so big taken down by things so small.  

Flint looks dead. That’s the long and the short of it. If not _dead_ , well, certainly near it. He’s paler than pale, washed out right down to the tips of his hair, spilling undone around his head like a doused flame. Someone has divested him of his clothes. He’s wearing a white undershirt, open wide at the collar. It’s awful. It makes him look _worse_. A corpse. White like a stuck pig, Silver thinks, and feels sick at the thought. The permanent scowl he had found himself growing used to—even _fond_ of, in some strange way—is gone. It its place is a delicate, weary frown. Flint’s whole face is damp with sweat; his throat red; his hair curling into ringlets at his temples. He shivers as he exhales, like it costs him something to breathe. 

The combined sight is unsettling, to be sure. Completely fucking bizarre to see a man like Flint in so vulnerable a state. Though none of it is nearly as bizarre as the instinct looking at him awakens: Silver wants to _hide_ him. He wants to kick Howell out of the room, wants to bolt the door, wants to refuse entry to anyone, everyone.

It’s an odd thought. Puzzling. Downright troubling, until it shifts like sand; Flint looks weak. Flint can’t look weak. It would do Silver no favours to have Flint’s captaincy threatened when it had only just been re-established. Not if he’s going to get Silver his gold. 

And sure, Silver had been— _has_  been trying to build a rapport with the men. It’s going fine. It’s going well. They’ve stopped punching him at any rate. But he’s not indispensable on this ship, not by a long shot. For that Silver needs more time, and he won’t get more time unless Flint is there to ensure his survival. 

It pays to keep Flint alive. It pays to keep his reputation alive. That’s it. That makes sense.

The second impulse, however, comes out of nowhere a moment later and most certainly does  _not_. Flint murmurs low under his breath and shifts a little in his sleep and—something hits Silver like a blow to the back of the fucking head. When the shock clears what he’s left with is in a singular, undeniable shape. It claws at him, growing more insistent the longer he stares at the thin skin of Flint's throat, flushed and shining with sweat.

There's no mistaking it this time. In the blink of an eye, Silver wants to grab Flint and  _run_. 

Troubling does not even begin to cover whatever the fuck this is. Silver clears his throat hard. 

“Wazzat?”

“ _Ema schelcha_ —!”

A panicked mess of limbs drops to the floor, and bolts upright again. Silver bends over Flint in a panic, close enough to hear his wheezy, troubled breathing; close enough to see Flint’s eyes are closed, but he just— 

“Howell,” Silver hisses, “Can he  _hear_  me?”  

"Maybe,” Howell says, returning to change the compress on Flint's forehead. "He’s quite delirious. Talks in his sleep. It’s a common symptom of tropical fevers." 

“Oh, is it?” Silver snaps in a furious whisper. “You could have warned me, you— _fucking_. My heart nearly Goddamn gave out.”

“Well. That would have ruined the surprise.”

“Doctor, has anyone ever told you your sense of humour is appalling?" 

“Yes,” Howell says, glancing over to reveal a grin. It rapidly turns into curious squint. “What language was that, by the way?”

“Pardon?" 

“You said—it sounded awfully familiar but I couldn’t place—”

"Who’s—who's there?" Flint barks, and they both look down at him again. Flint’s eyes are squeezed shut, and the customary scowl appears to be back in place. That’s a bit of a relief. "Shut the fff— _uck_ up."

“Ever the contrary bastard, isn’t he? Even half dead he hates us all.” 

"Silver?" 

This time, Silver jerks back from the bed so hard that he knocks right into Howell as he goes. Flint’s eyes have flown open; he’s staring fiercely at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused, wild.

“Silver,” he repeats, as though he's righting himself, and rolls over to look right at him.

Silver is the stuck pig, now. “That’s me,” he blurts, “Yes, hi. Hello, Captain. How are you?”

Flint doesn’t answer, doesn’t look like he _can_ answer. He just keeps staring, his eyes darting side to side in a kind of horrible panic. There is clarity there, Silver thinks, for a brief moment—Flint recognises him—and even as it is happening he can feel it slither out of his hands like the burning edge of a rope. Flint loses whatever war he was waging; his eyes clamp shut again. He rolls over with a long, miserable groan, starting to shiver in earnest, the cot beneath him rattling with the force of it. 

"I should—" Silver says, only he doesn’t know what the  _fuck_  he should; all trace of good humour in the air is gone as Howell shoves him roughly aside to attend to Flint, "I'll get out of your way—I’m sorry—I—"  

He is out the door and halfway through the hold before his fucking hands stop shaking. 

* * *

_We are all of us born sinners_ , Sister Margaret tells him. Only the woman speaking looks nothing like Sister Margaret; nothing like the stoutly, kind faced one Silver half-remembers, at least. 

No. This woman is faceless. Boundless. 

_We must learn this lesson, just as our first parents did,_ she says, and her voice echoes in the gaping cathedral that is Silver's chest. _Without the shedding of blood there can be no forgiveness._

_Are you ready to do your part, child?_

She bares her teeth and the ceiling caves in. She bares her teeth and the windows break. Silver does not realize he is drowning until the water is up to his neck, hot, scalding, turning his hands red. He tries to cry out; finds he has no voice; bucks his legs to find he has none of those, either. 

When he looks up she is standing over him, untouched and vicious and framed by a red sky. Her skin, clammy and colourless begins to crack, a sickening, slime-like thing oozing through the gaps—and she says, in a voice Silver can remember only in the way one can hold air in their lungs; fleeting, and burning;

_Dry your tears, mijo_ —

Silver wakes, gasping, clutching at his throat. Nausea unfurls wide in his stomach and he leans over to retch, managing to get most of it into a bucket by his hammock. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and sits there shivering, trying to focus on his surroundings. Half the crew is asleep, snoring like beasts. The other half is up on deck for the night’s watch; boots stomp lightly over his head, the air thick with displaced dust 

In the dark Silver thinks of Flint, shaking. His stomach lurches again.  

* * *

When Silver returns a full day later, Howell is slumped in the chair by Flint's bed, snoring. Flint is also asleep, though frowning through it as if he resents being unconscious, which—Silver is certain—he does. Howell wakes with a start when he hears Silver approach.  

"He's doing better," he says, before Silver can get a word in. "The shivers have more or less subsided, though the fever still persists." 

They watch Flint together for a moment, who groans as if aware of the scrutiny and rolls onto his side, curling towards the room. Howell digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and yawns.

"Get some sleep, Doctor. I'll take over. You look like hell." 

"You look—" Howell squints at him, too careful for a man who has just woken up. “Better. Much better.”

“Took your advice,” Silver grins, “Caught some sleep.”  

“That’s good. But don't you have somewhere else to be?" 

Silver shrugs. "Now that we're underway there's not much I can do. The men know I'm not a skilled sailor by any stretch of the imagination. I'd probably just get in the way. Break something. Sink the ship. I’ve done it before; I can’t be trusted around cannons." 

"Yes," Howell says, even as he keeps staring. A moment later he sighs, rubbing his eyes again. "I suppose you're right. I'll only be gone a few hours. Send for me immediately if anything changes." 

With that Howell is out the door and Silver is alone. He stays standing, listening to Flint breathe for a minute, before he shakes his head clear and sits down in the chair Howell vacated. It’s pulled up right to the side of the bed. It offers an unparalleled view; the sea, stretching for miles in their wake, Flint, curled onto his side and lightly snoring.

It’s not a sight Silver has ever had the privilege of seeing. Flint asleep. He's a difficult man to look at when he's awake, blistering with a bottled kind of rage that begs for and recoils from attention at the same time. But like this, Flint is _still_. And so Silver lets himself look. He documents the creases on Flint's forehead, the wry set of his mouth. The smattering of freckles over Flint's eyelids, the bridge of his nose; a little off, clearly previously broken. Silver wonders if that happened to him as a pirate. Or if it happened before, in the navy. Flint’s never said as much, but Silver can spot a navy man from miles away. It’s the way they walk.

Silver wonders if Flint knows that his past is written all over him. If he knows how dangerous a way that is to live. 

The sun dips lower in the sky and Silver begins to feel uneasy, sitting here. As though he's inviting something dangerous through a door. Still, he can't bring himself to fucking leave. He resolves to keep his eyes on the churning water, does his best to pretend that any part of this situation is remotely in the vicinity of being acceptable.

He mostly fails at that, too. 

* * *

"You're good at that," Flint mumbles, and Silver startles out of his head so abruptly that he almost slips out of his chair.   

It’s hours later. The cabin is near dark, and Flint is somehow awake again, his head tucked into the crook of his elbow like a child. He's watching something intently. Thrown, Silver follows his gaze to his hands, Silver's own in his lap, fidgeting with a coin he'd clearly pulled out of his pocket without meaning to. They watch together; Silver weaves it over his knuckles, between his fingers, one by one and back and forth. Flint is still watching when Silver forces his hand to still and curls the coin into his fist.  

"Old habit,” he says.

A _nervous_ habit. That’s the truth. One he had long since forced himself to abandon. Fidgeting aimlessly is an indulgence; Silver likes for displays of weakness on his part to be intentional. At least he used to. 

“You have quick hands,” Flint manages around a half-stifled yawn. His voice is thick with sleep. He pauses for a moment, and then sluggishly asks; “Who are you?”    

Silver’s blood runs cold. “Captain,” he says slowly, “Do you not recognize—“

“No, that’s not—” Flint heaves an exhausted sigh, like he’s too tired to elaborate. He sits up and shakes his head. “I meant before. Before—this. Before you were here. Who were you?" 

His gaze is so sincere and open then that Silver feels caught. "I told you,” he says, too slow, “I’m from—”

"I can tell when you're about to lie, you know," Flint cuts in softly. 

A single pale finger reaches out. Silver looks at it with a mixture of horror and confusion as it approaches the dip of his check, stops right before it makes contact with the corner of his mouth. It takes a great deal of effort, for some reason, for Silver to resist the stupid impulse to lean into it.

"You get this—curve by your mouth, right— _there_. It's fucking—" Flint inhales and then sighs, a low rattle in his chest as he drops his hand. He shakes his head again. "It's a lot," he says finally. "Your mouth." 

"My mouth is a lot?" 

Whatever illness Flint is nursing Silver must be catching it, because he can feel himself edging into a giddy sort of thrill, like bells. It does not even occur to him to be concerned about the fact that Flint knows for a fact when he lies. By all rights that should fucking concern him. But he is distracted, somewhat, by the look in Flint’s eye; something half awed and half longing.

Slowly, Silver smiles, and Flint's eyes follow the movement. "I’ve heard a lot worse about my mouth, Captain, but I must confess I haven't heard anyone put it quite so eloquently before." 

"I like that, too. The way you say that." 

Something coils warm around Silver’s throat, runs up the back of his neck like a caress. This whole conversation is a mistake, Silver knows, he _knows_ —

"The way I say what?" 

"Cap- _tain_ ," Flint says, his teeth snapping around the word. "I like how it sounds—coming out of your mouth." 

"Captain," Silver repeats, and he watches first with an urgent curiosity and then a sharp slash of heat in his gut as Flint's face splits into a grin.

“Again." Flint twists to lean forward on his elbow, “Say it again.”

A few things happen at the same time, then. Flint pitches closer and the room tilts on its side; a tide a storm, a fucking hurricane is levelling the ship, surely, and yet Silver cannot bring himself to care because he’s busy watching Flint’s tongue run over his lips. The world shrinks to the shortening space between them; Silver has a single moment to feel Flint’s hand hovering over his head before it tangles into his hair, fingers twisting through the strands, and Silver fights not to groan so close to Flint’s mouth as he says; 

“Capt—”

“Captain!”

This is the moment that fucking Hornigold chooses to barge into. He raps twice on the door before entering, the cabin door slamming into the wall, and Silver is so startled he yelps out of Flint's grasp. Flint's fingers tug on his hair as they leave it, and Silver has no time to feel any embarrassment about the strange little sound that climbs up his throat at the feeling because Hornigold stomps up to them a moment later, arms full of maps, his stupid fucking moustache twitching with rage 

“Captain,” Hornigold repeats, “You’re awake.”

It sounds like an accusation. Still propped up on his elbow, Flint gives him a withering look. “I am, yes. 

“That’s good news. I need a word. In private.”

That's fine, Silver is desperate to leave as it is. He’s been desperate to leave since he got here. “I’ll be off, Capt—”

Flint turns to look at him. If only the ship could sink at this very moment. Silver can’t meet his eye so he bolts to his feet, only Hornigold starts to talk before he’s even at the door, over eager to begin his tirade.

“What is it you propose to do about this, then?” Hornigold demands. 

“About what?”

“This! Our entire plan is in ruins! Vane is still sitting in the fort while we’re on our way to Freetown instead of—”

“What?” Flint’s tone sharpens. “We’re moving?" 

Hornigold groans, "Jesus Christ, have you even looked out the window?”  

A dangerous pause. Then, like the snap of a whip, “Why the  _fuck_  are we moving?”

The rest of the conversation gets swallowed up as Silver shuts the door behind him.

* * *

Peeling corn with Randall is a torturous ordeal. It feels endless every time. Rationally Silver knows it can’t possibly work this way but the massive pile between them seems only to grow rather than shrink no matter how many hours they spend cramped in the kitchen together. Ordinarily, this pisses him off. Ordinarily, he’s itching to throw himself over the side by the time they are done. Ordinarily, he makes himself scarce whenever Randall so much as _looks_ at a stalk of corn.

There is nothing ordinary about today.

Today Silver sits down on the hard, rickety stool in the corner and focuses solely on his task. Break, peel, sort. Break, peel, sort. Break, peel, sort. It isn’t exactly relaxing work at first; Randall mutters to himself like he always does, the ship rocks faintly this way and that, the hot air trapped in the hold makes Silver’s stomach heave. Eventually he’s able to tune it all out. Break, peel, sort. By the time he looks up again there’s only a handful of corn left on the table and his mind is quiet for the first time in days. 

Across the way, Randall is eyeing him suspiciously. His hands have gone still. It’s a sentiment Silver supposes he’s rightfully earned, though he still asks;

“What is it?”

“We know,” Randall says. The swinging lantern over their heads cuts his face in half, and back again.

“Good for you,” Silver tosses the corn in his hands into the bucket between them. He wipes his palms on his knees. “Know what?”

Randall’s teeth flash; his version of a grin. “We _know_ what you _did_.”

They look at each other. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Silver says, and Randall sticks his tongue out at him and spits. Silver can feel it land on his forehead and nose. Fucking delightful. 

“Liar,” Randall says, growing more confident as though Silver has confirmed something. “The Captain won’t be happy, you doing what you did. He doesn’t like liars, and you _lied_ , you—”

The stool scrapes against the ground; Silver is on his feet in an instant. “Randall,” he says, “When has the Captain ever been happy?”

* * *

It’s nightfall when Silver returns.

In truth, he just stands at Flint’s cabin door for a good twenty minutes deliberating on whether or not he should go in. He needs to tread carefully here. There’s a chance Flint is _furious_. There’s a chance Silver could risk the whole endeavour with the gold by saying the wrong thing. There’s a chance Flint doesn’t remember what happened before Hornigold walked in, a chance he’s appalled by it, a chance this is a mistake, it’s a mistake, it’s a _mistake_ —

The cabin is dark. It’s illuminated only sparingly by a few candles; two on the desk, standing among the maps Hornigold left behind, and a third on the bedside table, throwing the dark expanse of Flint’s back into sharp relief. He’s fast asleep, facing the windows. He’s changed his shirt. 

Now that he’s in here, Silver wants to leave. The violent swing of this is beginning to grate. He dawdles by the threshold, casting about for a final straw that will uproot him from where he’s standing and shove him out the door. He finds one, just as he's about turn and go, though not entirely of the sort he’s looking for. It’s the red that catches his eye.

Buried in the half-shadow beneath the candle on the nightstand, Silver can just make out the spine of a book—dark red and leather bound, worn to hell with age. The cabin is full of books – the previous occupant had clearly been a better student than a captain – rows upon rows of them lining the two walls, and yet not a single one is out of place. Silver checks. It's not a big leap to figure out the implication. 

He's sitting in the chair by the bed again before he realizes what he's done. The book is in his lap, under his palm, perfectly unassuming and unremarkable. Kind recognizes kind: Silver knows a liar when he sees one. Whatever this book is to Flint it's important enough to forgo the ship business scattered across his desk. It's worth the fight through a fever haze to be able to read it. Silver watches the rise and fall of Flint’s shoulder and sees it, in his minds eye; Flint propped up in bed, warm with sleep, hair mussed and struggling to focus, clinging to this book the way he’d clung to Silver.

The choice is made. Silver flips it open. He means to skim it, to start reading at the page Flint has marked with a white feather – half-way through already, Christ he reads fast – only the spine is so bent out of shape with overuse that the cover falls open. Silver barely even looks at the first page, thinks it blank, almost moves on.

_James_ , he reads, suddenly. He blinks and reads it again. He stares at the rest. The world shifts, struggling to re-align itself. Silver looks at Flint again and sees that his shirt has hitched up around his waist, revealing a pale sliver of skin right above the dip of his spine. 

_James_ , Silver thinks stupidly. 

Many things reveal themselves at the same time, like sails filling with an unexpected gust of wind. Flint was James. James had been loved. Deeply and truly loved, at some point in his life. This love had been lost. It had to have been, Silver thinks, staring at the nape of Flint's neck. He's never seen a man more adamant to die for it. It had to have been. Lost to the sea, perhaps. To worse, more likely. Silver knew worse too well and could recognise the scars. They lived in different bodies in different ways, vengeful fury in some and false smiles in others. Always, _always_ they sang the same tune.

He shuts the book. It sits in his hands. Quiet and true beneath his fingers.

Without warning, a wave of revulsion hits him hard enough to keel him over—it ties into a knot in his side, oozing shame until that's all he feels. He's only ever known how to take what doesn't belong to him. He's seized with the impulse to dispose immediately of the evidence; to cast the book aside, leave the room, never look at Flint again. Shed this skin and leave it rotting in the sand.

Flint groans in his sleep. A soft pained sound, and suddenly there’s a helpless agony clawing up Silver's throat instead. It tastes like frustration, he thinks, it tastes like  _rage_ ; how the _fuck_ could Flint leave this here? Sitting on the table, for anyone to just walk in and peruse it, rifle through it or destroy it like it’s fucking nothing, a beating bleeding heart of nothing. The room dips out of focus, and his hands itch over the leather binding, his hands _burn_ , and isn’t that just funny, he thinks fiercely, he’s holding love in his hands and it only knows how to hurt.

He puts the book down the way he found it. Turns it just so into the shadow, the way he found it.

Untethered, now. Free as a bird. He’s put it down and so he should go, he should fucking _run_ , only the familiar urge is eclipsed by the nameless one begging him to stay. To guard what Flint refuses to guard for himself. 

Silver gets up. The floor creaks beneath him as he makes his way over to a shelf, grabs another book at random. He skims the title – some fucking thing about trade winds in the West Indies – and it’s good enough to put him to sleep, so it’s good enough.

The hours pass. Maybe they don't. The shadows keep playing on the floor and Silver loses track. He sits with Flint reading and unseeing and unfeeling. Every once in a while his eyes skitter around the room to land on red; the red of Flint's hair loose and damp and spilling over the pillow; the red of the book, peeking at him in the dark, taunting like gold. Silver curls his free hand into a fist and keeps his eyes down. 

The cabin is too quiet. Silver starts to hum. Under his breath and nonsense at first, just mindless sounds to forget the fact that the fucking book is still sitting there staring at him like a corpse he's pulled from the ground. The distraction helps. His mind beings to dance around the borders of half-remembered melodies, tugging at one another until they slip freely from his mouth, low and warm and familiar. Dimly aching like a poorly healed wound in the rain. Slowly, eventually, Silver feels himself begin to unravel. His breathing matches up with Flint's, matches up with the sea, drawing in and out against the hull.

"That's beautiful," Flint murmurs, and to his credit, Silver absolutely does not jump. Mostly because he doesn't notice that Flint has spoken, lost in a shapeless memory until Flint shifts and flips onto his back. 

Only then does he kind of jump. "Captain—"

"Don't stop on my account," Flint says, eyes on the ceiling. "Finish it." 

Any other time the words would likely sound scathing. Instead they fall so sincerely out of Flint’s mouth that Silver feels his mortification blur slowly into something else. He goes stupid with it, which is probably why he does as he’s been asked. He begins to hum again. Only this time more than the melody begs to be voiced; he opens his mouth and begins to sing, lets the words he’s forgotten – he’s sure he has, he’s sure he’s forgotten – climb out of his throat, out of the dark and into the warmth of the room.

Flint watches the ceiling the entire time. He turns over, onto his shoulder when Silver finally falls silent. His eyes are dark and inscrutable in the candlelight.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Flint murmurs. “What language was that?”

“It isn’t important. I should leave you to your rest, Captain, I’ll let Howell know you’re—”

“Silver—"

“ _Please_  don’t tell me to sit,” Silver says as he gets to his feet, “It’s unfair, really, that tone of voice. Has anyone ever disobeyed you when you’ve used it?”

“You have,” Flint says, and fuck, the corner of his mouth has quirked up. “You’re doing it now.” He pauses, deliberate, and the smirk only gets wider as he says; “ _Sit_.” 

Silver stares. And then sits. “Don’t take this as a concession, Captain. I’m only listening to you because you’re ill and might die at any moment. Consider your last request granted.”

Flint makes a contrary sort of sound and props himself up on his elbow. “Do you know how many people have tried to kill me, Silver?" 

“I make a point of not answering rhetorical questions, Captain, but I can only assume in the millions.”

Flint snorts. “Perhaps that’s pushing it somewhat." 

"Half a million, then," Silver says. "What's your point?"

"The point is I’ve denied them all and I won’t give this fever the satisfaction of killing me, either." 

“I always knew you were alive for spite,” Silver says, and reaches for the jug of water on the table before Flint has even extended his hand. He pours a mug and hands it over; Flint takes it without hesitation. 

“I always knew you were a perceptive little shit,” he chuckles. His eyes are alight over the rim. 

_This is nice_ , Silver thinks, and the thought barges in so fucking unbidden that he can feel his answering smile slip right off his face. Flint frowns at him then, a hesitant and wondering thing.  He sets the mug down, his eyes never leaving Silver's face.

“What was it?" he asks, "The song you sang." 

“Some old thing, can’t remember where I picked it up.”

“Really? I feel as if I’ve heard it before.”

“Impossible, Captain, unless you’ve been to Greece.”

Flint’s eyes go wide. “I thought you said you couldn’t remember where you picked it up,” he says carefully. “You’re Greek?”

Silver reaches for Flint’s mug and takes a sip. Flint is still watching him when he sets it down, eyes gone dangerously curious.

“Mediterranean, then,” he says. “Spanish?”

“I thought I was the perceptive little shit here,” Silver grins, the sharp one that disarms, “There’s only room for one on this ship, wouldn’t you agree?”  

“You’re doing it again,” Flint says. He has the gall to look fucking disappointed for it. 

“Doing what? It’s just a silly little song, Captain, really. How are you feeling?"

After a long pause likely taken to drive home the fact that he is aware of the piss poor attempt at deflection, Flint says, “Better.” He heaves himself into a sitting position, rubbing at his forehead. "The fever is a breeze compared to this headache. It might actually kill me, I think.”   

“That doesn’t sound good. I’ll go fetch Howell, shall I?” Without waiting for a reply Silver stands, makes his way around the chair and heads towards the door.  

“Hornigold told me, you know.” 

“Pardon?”

When Silver turns back, Flint is staring at the candle on the nightstand. “The men,” he says, the light playing across his hollowed cheeks, turning the stubble across his jaw red. “They wanted to stay. Hold the blockade in Nassau as I’d ordered. Dufresne thought the opinion was unanimous. He was sure. He told Hornigold as much. And then the men voted to leave instead.”

“I see. Well, you know better than I how fickle they are, Captain. They wanted to see you hanged one day and voted you Captain the next. One of them likely saw some omen at the bottom of a bottle and riled up the rest. And truthfully, between you and I, Dufresne isn’t fit to be Quartermaster. It’s unsurprising his canvassing has left something to be desired.” 

“Hornigold didn’t know, of course,” Flint says, as if he hasn't heard a word. His hand has drifted to the side table; his thumb grazes along the grooves as he speaks. “He mentioned it in passing, thought it was unusual for a crew to swing suddenly like that. I knew, though, as soon as he said it.” 

Silver stares at him. He can't bring himself to speak.

"You," Flint says. His hand goes still. "You convinced them all.”

“Captain,” Silver says after a moment of silence. “This is the fever talking. How would I even—I mean, I know I’m good, but I’m not  _that_  good. I suppose it's flattering that you think me so adept at—"

“The point here isn’t what you did or how you did it, but  _why_.”

“I don’t know what it is you want me to say but truly, I didn't—" 

"At first I thought you had made a deal," Flint sighs, drawing his hands together between his knees, "That you'd thrown your lot in with Vane and Eleanor Guthrie. Perhaps the plan was to undermine my captaincy, steal the gold from under my nose. I don’t know. It wasn't unthinkable. Hell, I expected it." 

“That’s a good story, Captain, really,” Silver says, and he can hear it; the desperate edge creeping into his voice, “But I promise you that's not what—"

"Only if that were the case," Flint tilts his head to the side, "It makes no sense for you to be in this room, does it? Sitting here, hours on end, constantly watching me as if you—" Flint drags a hand over his face, scratches at his jaw thoughtfully. "I can't make sense of it. Any of it. Why are you here?"  

"Captain, you should be resting—"

"Why are you  _here_?"  

At last Flint lifts his gaze from the floor and he looks—fucking miserable. The sort of misery that Silver knows for a fact he carries around; the sort Flint wouldn’t be caught dead wearing so close to the skin if his entire body wasn’t shot to shit. The urge to chase it off his face is so strong that Silver starts to talk before he knows what it is he’s going to say.

“I—I wanted to—I had to—”

Flint’s expression shifts, unwinding. “You had to? What?” Too many seconds trickle past in silence and in one quick stroke, Flint loses his patience; “For fuck’s sake never mind. Just get out, get—" 

“I lost my mother to a fever.”   

“You lost—” Silver watches in horror as it breaks over him, the ugly, simple truth. "Oh." 

"Yes,  _oh_ ," he says, and he feels stripped, and he can't fucking  _think_ , "Now if I could have your permission to get Howell, I'd like to make fucking certain you don't die if I may."  

He’s almost at the door when Flint says, “That’s—Silver don't—”

“What?” Silver rounds on him again, bristling, “This is what you wanted, right, to know why? Well, now you know; I did it, I convinced the men, I flipped the vote, I practically surrendered Nassau to Charles fucking Vane and I didn't do it for the fucking gold, all right? I did it because I couldn't watch—I just—and I’d do it again, too, so stop, stop it, stop looking at me like that—”

“Like what?” 

“Like you aren’t even angry—like you—"

 “I’m not.”

 “You’re—” Silver balks. “What?”

“I’m not angry with you,” Flint repeats, and looks it. His expression is unchanged, really, in every way, except for his eyes. They are bright, and warm, and horribly, horribly unguarded. “I understand why you did what you did.” 

“Captain,” Silver says, taking a step forward. “Did you hit your head?”

Flint frowns, looking more like himself than he has in days. “What?”

“Well, then, I must have hit mine. Or I’m asleep. Perhaps I’m dead. Christ that's it, I'm dead, aren't I?" 

At that, Flint laughs, and it’s a wonderful, buoyant sound. The nauseating weight pressing into Silver’s chest is replaced with a lightness; he feels afloat with it, like he could soar. 

Flint gestures to the chair with his foot. “Will you sit with me?”

“Oh, it’s a choice now?”

“It’s always a choice,” Flint says. "It's always been a choice. Sit?" 

Silver stares at him, long and hard, before moving to obey. Flint immediately begins to grin as he approaches, swinging his legs back up onto the bed to lie down. 

"For the record," Silver says, settling into the seat and putting his feet up by Flint's, "That tone is worse than the other one." 

"I know," Flint says, weaving his fingers over his belly and closing his eyes. "It always works."

"You shit." 

"Mmhm. Only I thought there was room aboard for just the one shit?" 

Silver considers this carefully. "We'll make room for two, then. Maybe throw someone overboard to compensate. I vote Dufresne." 

"Good plan," Flint says, fighting a smile. It soon slips; he takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry about your mother." 

"Don't, it's—” If Flint notices the way Silver's throat knots he doesn't comment, though his brow creases. "It was a long time ago," Silver says finally. He turns his eyes to the ceiling. "As it is I barely remember her." 

"Even so. Those kinds of wounds are not the sort to fade with time."

Something flares in Silver's chest; the reflex to disagree, he thinks. Everything fades with time if you let it. Everything. Except—even as he wars himself to stifle the memory—he can see her, instantly; can see her still; clear as day and smiling. Warm like a home. The ache returns at the same time, crawling out of the dark and baring its fangs as if brand new. It tears the words from his hoarse throat before he can help it, before he can even think to get ahead of it. 

"She looked like me." 

There’s quiet for a moment. Flint's eyes are closed and Silver thinks—hopes—that he has drifted back to sleep. Only Flint comes to life with a sigh, a wistful and gentle thing. 

"She must have been beautiful," he murmurs, like an after-thought, and Silver can’t fucking resist looking down, then, marvelling at the unblinking honesty of it. 

Neither of them speak for a while. Once more Silver finds himself watching Flint breathe, in and out and in again. Then Flint says, out of nowhere, "So, was I right?" 

"About what?" 

"Are you Greek?" 

"Oh, no you don't," Silver chides, knocking at Flint's leg with his own. "You don't get any more questions tonight. Speaking of, I'm curious, did you come up with all of them on the spot, or did you spend the whole day thinking about shit to ask me?" 

Flint shrugs a shoulder. "I think about you.”

If he were the sort to still believe in God, Silver would send a prayer of thanks for the fact that Flint's eyes are still closed. "Is that so?" 

"Mmhm." 

"And what is it that you think about, when you think about me?" 

"All sorts of things," Flint says, and he begins to smile, before it slips again. "Though mostly about how little I know about you." 

"That's rich, Captain, considering I don't know a thing about you."  

"My name is James."

The floor seems to quake beneath Silver's chair. He can't get his stupid fucking mouth to form a reply, lie or otherwise. 

"I know you know," Flint says then, and the shaking floor disappears entirely.

"How on earth—" There's a dawning horror. "Were you awake  _this whole fucking time_ —"

"Don't be silly. It's the feather. You're really not that good of a thief given that you fell for the same trick twice."

Silver sits up immediately to peek beneath the bedside table and sure enough, the feather is on the floor, almost invisible in the dimming light. "Well," he says, face flushing a little as he leans back, "That isn't a very revealing secret then, is it, Captain?"  

"The secret is not the name," Flint says, and he cracks one eye open to look at him. "Plenty of people know my name. But I'm giving you the permission to use it. That should count for something, right?" 

"I—" Silver starts, and the knot in his side is unwinding, unwinding, unwinding, coming all the way apart in his hands, "It does, yes. Thank you." 

The corner of Flint's mouth lifts. "You're welcome," he says, eyes slipping shut again. "Will you sing for me, then?" 

Silver shoves against his foot on the bed; instantly Flint shoves back.

"Don't push your luck, James." 

* * *

Turns out, the men _do_ have a use for Silver when they are at sea, namely the role for which he was hired in the first place. Howell relieves him at daybreak, while Flint is still asleep, implying that Randall has begun to throw a fit about being in the kitchen by himself. Resigned to his fate, Silver slips out and spends a riveting day peeling more shit to feed to a bunch of ungrateful sods. Being a cook is a thankless job, he’s learned. By suppertime he’s so fucking exhausted he collapses into his hammock like a felled tree.

They’ll be in Freetown in two days. Flint will have time to heal, and they’ll find a way to take back the fort like they’d planned; they’ll find a way to go after the gold like they’d planned. Silver lets himself be lulled into a dreamless sleep, rocked by the easy rhythm of the tides rushing against the hull.

* * *

The next morning, he enters the cabin to find Flint's cot empty. He panics for a minute – as if the Captain could just up and die, without someone letting him know – before his eyes adjust to the light and he sees Flint; standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back. The customary leather jacket is back on his shoulders. Beneath it his spine is ramrod straight. Silver can just about make out the line of his cheekbones, the corner of a tight frown as he stares off into the distance. 

Relief and disappointment roll through Silver's stomach at the same time. "Good to see you're up and about,” he says as he shuts the door. 

Like a swinging blade and just as lethal, Flint throws a one-eyed glare over his shoulder. "Where the fuck have you been?" 

"Uh," Silver teeters uncertainly on one leg. "Up on deck with the men? I didn't think you'd be awake." 

It’s not the time for this, it’s not the time for this at all, but the second Flint turns to him completely—larger than life again, somehow—Silver marvels at the sight; other than a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to Flint’s forehead and the last dregs of a flush to his skin, there is no earthly indication that he was close to dying not two days ago. The air around him is bristling, instead, with a coiled and dangerous kind of fury. His voice, however, is steady when he speaks. 

"There's a rumour that you were the one who gave the order to sail to Freetown," he says, bracing two hands on the desk and leaning forward. The last time he stood like that—Flint’s eyes going white; Flint collapsing—and God, Flint doesn’t remember, he doesn’t fucking _remember_ —

"Mr. Scott and I agreed—" Silver starts, rattled, and Flint interrupts him with a scoff.

"Mr. Scott and I? Him, I understand. But who the fuck are you to give orders on my behalf?" 

"Captain," Silver says, feigning calm, though he's beginning to feel a rumble in his chest that feels remarkably like rage. "You've been delirious for the past week. If we'd gone back to Nassau it would have been useless, if not fucking catastrophic. We— _I—_ did what I thought was right." 

"What are you talking about?" Flint demands, staring at Silver as though he’s speaking in tongues. "We had a _plan,_ we made a commitment, we—" 

"What would people say?" Silver snaps, taking a step forward. "Take a moment to fucking think before you tear my head off. News of your condition would have reached other crews as soon as our men stepped on the sand, and then where would you be? In the middle of some power-play, no doubt; between Vane and Hornigold every Captain on that island wants you dead." 

"They always want me dead—"

"That may be true, but a moving target is harder to hit, and you have not been moving at all the past few days. The plan needed to be changed. So I changed it." Silver’s blood cools, and he heaves a sigh. “Regardless, I’m sure we can figure out a way to put it all back together now that you’ve recuperated.”

"Are you telling me you did this out of some misguided impulse to—what?" Flint's expression shifts into something far more disgusted, " _Protect_  me?" 

"To protect your captaincy," Silver corrects, feels it slice somewhere into his gut as he does. "Yes." 

The tension in Flint's shoulders eases, only just; though he seems grow more furious for it. He leans further over the table and prods at the surface with his finger, his voice expanding in the room like hot air, "I do not need your protection, I need your obedience, do you understand? I need you to do what I tell you to do _when_ I tell you to do it, not offer up your own solutions to problems that aren’t even _yours_ to fix—" 

"Not mine? Are you _fucking kidding me_ —"

Suddenly Flint's open palm comes down on the table, hard, and Silver has to force himself not to flinch; Flint’s eyes are bright now, urgent; "Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you have  _any_  idea how much time we've wasted? We could be in competition with ten other crews for the Urca gold by now, not to mention the fact that Charles Vane will never, _ever_ let me regain the advantageous position you so carelessly fucking abandoned. So even if by some fucking miracle we beat every other crew there and get our  _Goddamned gold_ we will be forced to surrender some portion of it—if not _all_ of it to him when we return! God, _you_ —” Flint heaves a great breath, betraying his exhaustion in spades, “You have single-handedly fucked every man on this ship out of his share in—" 

"Jesus Christ!” Silver bellows, at his wit’s end, finally, “What fucking use is the fucking gold if you're dead!”

It is only after the dull thud of it abates that Silver realizes he's stomped his foot onto the ground. The reality of what he’s just said hits him the same way; painfully slow, and absolutely damning.

A dangerous silence stretches out. About three expressions chase each other quickly across Flint's face; rage, more rage; and then something that looks horribly pained, the corner of his eye shivering with a twitch. He stares at Silver for a long, drawn moment – and it could be fucking eternity as far as Silver is concerned, he’s too busy counting the way Flint’s breaths come, the way his eyes track, the way his fingers clench and unclench – and then abruptly Flint looks away, waves a hand.

Dismissed.

Where fear was beginning to creep up Silver's throat a moment ago, indignation flares instead, sharp and painful. He turns to leave, except—

"Wait—" 

Feeling more and more like circus monkey with each passing moment, Silver doesn't obey until he hears Flint shift behind him followed by a firmer, " _Stop_." 

The strange edge to his voice is more alarming than any kind of anger Flint has ever displayed. Silver halts in his tracks, staring at the still-closed door.

A rustle of cloth, like Flint has rounded the corner of the table. His boots fall heavy onto the wood. "Did we—" he hesitates. Silver braces for what’s coming, but it’s still not enough; it hits him like a broadside anyway; "Did we speak yesterday, you and I?" 

“Yes,” Silver says. “Briefly. I was busy all day with the men. We were short a Captain, you see." 

Flint says nothing. All Silver can hear is his own shaky breathing. When the silence grows to be unbearable, "If that's all—" Silver starts, at the same time Flint says, "I could have sworn—I remember you, I—" 

The sharp inhale of realization that follows feels like the snap of the gallows. Some sick cosmic joke. Silver squeezes his eyes shut. “If that’s all, Captain, I’m needed on deck.”

He feels Flint take a step forward. That’s Silver’s cue to leave. Which he does, just on this side of hasty so that he doesn’t look like he’s running. 

* * *

“You look sad,” Randall says, squinting at Silver over a pile of potatoes.

Silver busies himself with stirring the stew. “You look drunk. Smell it, too.”

“You look _sad_ ,” Randall insists, leaning close. When Silver ignores him yet again Randall gets up and grabs his forearm, tugs at him a little, setting a single, peeled potato into his open palm. 

“Er—thank you?”

Randall looks pleased. He grins a toothy grin. “You’re a thief,” he says, and Silver huffs, moves to turn away; Randall holds on tighter. He's surprisingly strong. “You’re _our_ thief.”

Something alarmingly close to fondness rushes through Silver; followed swiftly by panic. "Yes," he says, gently prying Randall's hand off his arm. "Thank you. I'll, uh. Be sure to wash this before I eat it." 

Randall nods, pats Silver's cheek, once, and way too hard; Silver has to blink his vision clear. He looks as though he's about to do it again with more gusto when Silver catches on. He feigns a smile, which Randall returns. 

"Good," he says, satisfied, and hobbles back over to the table. Silver stares at his hand, tries not to think about the fact that a peeled potato from a half-there pirate is the only gift he’s ever received in his life.  

* * *

They serve the stew and the boiled potatoes to a lukewarm response from the crew. Everyone is a little agitated and restless; eager to get back to Nassau and fight, eager to get to the gold, for this whole endeavour to be over. Flint had amended the course in the early afternoon and then retreated to his cabin for the rest of the day. For his part, Silver had elected to avoid him, watched the announcement from the cut out in the kitchen wall. This amounted to a lot of Randall time and more fucking peeling, which—again—was preferable over the alternative. 

Now they're moving around the mess hall together, clearing dishes and wiping the tables down. Men shout and stomp overhead, coating everything in dust. The warship picks up speed. At this rate they'll be at Nassau by sundown tomorrow. 

"Christ," Silver groans, peering at the already blackened rag in his hand. "How the fuck do they manage to make such a mess?" 

"They're pirates. You get used to it." 

Startled, Silver whips around to find Flint sitting at the corner table in the dark, his hands folded in front of him and his expression in shadow. 

There's a beat. "Hungry?" Silver asks, and Flint shakes his head. 

"My stomach is still a little—" he clears his throat. "I wouldn't say no to rum if we've got some to spare." 

"Rum is never to spare, Captain," Silver says, leaning against the table he was cleaning. He holds out a mug. "Want Dooley's leftovers?"   

Flint huffs. "I'll pass." 

"A wise choice."

Neither speak for a moment, and then at the same time; 

"I should—" 

"Would you like to—" 

"What?" 

"What?" 

"You go first," Silver says, drawing closer to the table. Flint leans back; his face dips in and out of the light streaming through the porthole, the barest hint of nerves. 

"Right," he says. "I wanted to ask if you'd—is that a potato?" 

"It's a gift," Silver says, taking it off the table and pocketing it. For safekeeping.  

Flint looks, rightfully, _baffled_. "I have questions," he says, and Silver has to fight the foolish grin he feels pulling at his mouth. 

"About the potato or something else?" 

"I’ll just add it to the list.” Flint moves, leaning fully into the light. His eyes are crystal clear; a welcome sight. "Would you like to sit?" 

It hangs between them for a moment, and Silver feels the future stretch out in front of him, just like that. Long and winding, and semi-permanent. For the first time in years he finds that he's kind of content with that. 

"All right," he says, and settles in across from Flint; who smiles, a soft thing that reaches his eyes.

"All right,” he says. 

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to scream @ me if you're so inclined, i'm annevbonny on tumblr


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